


Third Eye Odyssey

by Amaruq



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I will list any TWs at the beginning of the chapter in the notes, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partners to Lovers, Reader is bi or pan, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, up to you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26486080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amaruq/pseuds/Amaruq
Summary: It’s been 10 years since you died. Well, the old you, anyway. You were a mediocre mentalist—a glorified conman—until one day, you made a mistake. In order to clear your record, you were forced to make a deal with a government Devil, to use your talents to serve the CIA and your country. But, there was a catch: you had to abandon your life, leaving it all behind to become a ghost. You were nameless, known only to select few by the cryptonym "Jane". You loved this new world, but a lot can happen in a decade.Nothing ever truly stays buried, and misfortune had struck once again. The person that wore your face now, the new you, had seen the world for what it truly was: ugly and unforgiving. It twisted you, robbed you, then left you broken and bereft. You sought for a revalation, some kind of resolution, and you knew that it was only a trigger pull away.That's when you met Spencer Reid.Something changed your mind. Was new sense of purpose? A sense of devotion to a total stranger? Maybe. The only thing knew for sure was that God didn’t want you, and the Devil wasn’t finished.Luckily for you, the BAU was looking for a consultant.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	1. The Meet Cute

**Author's Note:**

> ♡ If you find the classic book formatting annoying to read, please click the "Hide Creator's Style" button at the top of the page to revert it back to the default AO3 style. ♡
> 
> [TW: Violence]
> 
> I'm using this story as practice for something else I'm writing. Sometimes it will be a continuous story, sometimes it will be episodic. Either way, it's gonna be fun!
> 
> (Don't expect consistent updates lol)

* * *

Public transportation was not as horrible as a lot of people thought. It is (usually) cheap and quite economical. However, even for Dr. Reid, late-night travel did come with its own feeling of minor dread and anxiety. No matter how many times he rode the shuttle home from a late night at the office, he had to mentally prepare himself for the worst. A wave of relief hit him as he stepped onto the bus tonight to discover that there was currently only one other passenger. 

The woman sat about 3/4ths of the way back in the seat closest to the window, laying against the wall as support as she attempted to sleep. She wore a pitch-black woolen duster with a dark grey cotton pullover hoodie underneath for an extra layer of warmth to guard her against the brisk winter night. The upper half of her face was shielded from view due to the hood, but—from what he could make out in the mere seconds he had to observe her before walking past her row—her appearance was rough enough that one might assume she was homeless. The Doctor, however, had a keen eye for detail. 

Despite the loose, unkempt hair and scuffed, ragged attire, she appeared mostly put together. There was no obvious odor as he passed by the row she sat in (he preferred to sit in the very back as it allowed him optimal isolation for uninterrupted reading), her skin was somewhat clear, and her nails looked well-maintained. He did, however, notice the glass bottle of some unknown brown liquid slightly visible from the inside of her coat. This violated Virginia's Open Container Law and would subject her to a fine upwards of $250, but he suspected that she was not the type to really care about a Class 4 misdemeanor. 

After taking his seat, Dr. Reid read his book mindlessly and mentally tallied the number of stops that passed until they reached his destination. Tonight’s chosen literature was one he had re-read a number of times now, despite his eidetic memory, but found that it brought him comfort each time as it was a gift given to him by his mother years prior. At a little over eight hundred pages, it was a light, easy read. Perfect for his short transit home. He expected to finish the book in its entirety before walking through the threshold of his apartment.

_Amaranth_ lamented the tale of a tormented female knight who traveled a weary dirt road following the untimely murder of her betrothed. She had no destination; she simply wandered forth, waiting for death to find her. An unending Odyssey. After stopping at a rundown inn to find shelter from the cold one night, she meets a curious alchemist who wishes to see the world and insists she allow him to join her on her journey. She reluctantly accepts and in turn, he shows her a new, unbeaten path full of adventure so invigorating that she was brought back to life with a new sense of purpose. In the end, the female knight finds a light of happiness inside herself and decides that there’s a life worth living for in someone else. It was a happy ending. The kind that allowed Reid to briefly escape the horrors he witnessed on a daily basis.

He often wondered if he might have such an ending as well.

Between chapters, the Doctor made attempts to keep a watchful eye on his travel companion. Not out of paranoia, but out of habit. The woman appeared to bob her head every so often as she came in and out of consciousness to what Reid assumed was to evaluate her surroundings. The Doctor began to question her level of lucidity as he suspected her to be more alert than others might give her credit for. Not that there _were_ any others on the shuttle with them, save for the driver.

It was not until the fifth stop that more passengers interrupted the mutual solitude he shared with the stranger. 

Three rowdy men sauntered onto the bus and quickly sat in the chairs closest to the entrance, the ones that lined up against the shuttle walls to allow ample room for wheelchairs. The men were loud and took up a considerable amount of space as they lounged in the extra room the bus’s late-night vacancy had allotted them. Reid thought them to be nothing more than a group of thugs, yet somehow they reminded him of the Cat in the Hat and his two pals. It was a childish thought, but maybe it was the chaotic energy that they shared that brought it to his mind.

Their vulgar banter filled the air. Had they known an FBI Special Agent was within earshot, they might not have been quite so nonchalant about discussing their illicit activities so publicly. However, the young Agent decided to keep to himself. He was, after all, off-duty and a 5-hour flight back from California drained him too much to concern himself with attempting to make an off-duty arrest while unarmed. He wasn’t a very good shot, anyways. No point in denying the facts.

Before the shuttle could even make it to its next stop, one of the young goons (Reid thought them to be young, but in reality, they were probably older than he) had turned his attention to the resting stranger. He was a slender, white male whose dirty blond hair was tousled so elegantly that it could only mean it was an intentional style choice. His smile became upturned as he gently hit the arm of one of his buddies with the back of his hand and ushered to her. He slid down the seats to get closer.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty!” he shouted, hoping to wake her. He rested his arms on the barrier. There were still a few rows separating the two.

The stranger did not move.

“Hello?!” He persisted. “I’m talkin’ to you, babe!”

Still, the woman did not budge. The Doctor’s anxiety began to rise as the loud-mouth slid back to his friends, grabbed the fast-food cup being held by the one closest to him, and chucked it at her head.

Lucky for the woman, the cup was mostly empty... But only mostly. The plastic container landed hard on her shoulder, missing a direct hit with her head by a few measly centimeters. What little liquid that was left in the cup now dampened the site of the impact.

The group laughed like a pack of hyenas.

There was no point in even pretending to be asleep now. Despite the clear act of aggression, her only reaction was to lift her head from its resting position and look upon her assailants. Dr. Reid could not see the expressionless, warning look on her face from where he was sitting, but whatever her eyes spoke to them, it left them temporarily speechless. She spoke not a single word before averting her eyes and turning her body in her seat—a clear message to the group that she wanted nothing to do with them.

Her back was now against the shuttle wall, allowing Reid the opportunity to see her face, and she his. She was beautiful, he thought, but clearly needed some rest. The area around her eyes was dark and sunken, much like his own, and there was a distinct, jagged scar on her upper lip, slightly to the left of her philtrum. He wondered what predicament she had once found herself in to have earned such a disfigurement. 

The stranger looked at him for only a brief moment before fixing her gaze vacantly on the wall opposite her. She sent him no obvious non-verbal signals; she did not plead to him for help as he expected. In fact, she seemed to almost completely gloss over his lack of attendance to the situation in general. The Doctor surmised that she was either used to this behavior from others and had therefore grown passive to it, or she was somehow able to suppress mankind’s involuntary fight or flight responses. The type of control that was typically found in a trained professional. Which one was more likely? Perhaps it was both.

She may have not expected on-lookers to interject, but (much to his chagrin) he knew he would have to if the situation escalated any further. The probability that he would leave the encounter unscathed was incredibly low. Close to zero, actually. But, it was what he was trained to do. Even off-duty.

The blond shouted, “C’mon Baby!” He was standing now and began to approach her, walking past the empty rows to the one she sat in as if to be stalking prey. “What’s wrong with you? You look like shit, girl. Whatcha been up too? Betcha I can get ya cleaned up nice ‘nd good...”

Reid intervened before he could reach her. He stood abruptly and dashed down the aisle, stopping at the row behind hers. The thug halted his approach, leaving only a single row between himself and Reid with the stranger in the middle.

The Doctor’s sudden movement alerted the other two members—whom he had dubbed as Thing 1 and Thing 2—of the Blond’s criminal crew, causing them to race to their friend’s side. There was not enough room in the aisle for them, so they stood behind him in a line.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask the three of you to back up.” The Doctor’s voice cracked as he spoke. How utterly embarrassing.

The blond chuckled, “Or what? Mind your own business, geek.”

Reid forced himself to ignore his misuse of the term _‘geek’_ and the urge to correct him.

Neither party noticed the woman slowly inching towards them in her row.

“Regretfully, I cannot,” The Doctor held up the badge he had taken out of his coat earlier, revealing himself to be an FBI agent. He tried to sound as authoritative as he could. “Now, back away.” 

“What a load of shit,” Thing 1 said. “You ain’t no FBI!”

The woman inched more.

Thing 2 quipped, “What kinda cereal box you pull that phony-ass badge from, kid?”

The ‘phony-ass’ Agent shook his head. 

“I assure you, it is _very_ real.” He replied calmly. His veins began to fill with adrenaline.

“Man, whatever!” The party leader grew frustrated. “Get that fake shit outta face and back the fuck up!’

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

The leader rolled his eyes with an aggravated groan and pulled a comically large butterfly knife from his jacket pocket, a perfect display of his bravado. The agent’s hands shot up submissively, attempting to placate the situation. He was not in a rush to die. It was a bad day to have left his personal sidearm at work. He allowed his mind to cycle through scenarios on how this situation might end, but none of the outcomes were ideal (to say the least).

The stranger grew even closer.

“Then I’ll just make you, how ‘bout that?!”

“I would not advise that.” Reid hastily warned, never letting go of his badge. “Think about what you’re doing. I’m a federal agent. Plus, the footage from the bus's security cameras will make pretty damning evidence in court, don’t you think?”

“You think I give a shit—” The bus came to a long, screeching stop. The driver had finally noticed the escalating situation, cutting the thug off by slamming on the breaks. Those standing staggered from the sudden halt.

Reid clutched onto the backs of the chairs on either side of him.

Before any of them could recover fully, the woman seized the leader's wrist with one hand, stood between him and Reid, and twisted it upwards; causing him to fall to his knees and drop the knife. It hit the ground with a loud _clunk_ and slid into obscurity. The smaller bones let out a series of abbreviated pops as her grip grew tighter. It happened so fast that the blond’s senses could not respond in time to defend himself.

Reid had certainly been wrong about his initial presumption of her. He had never before been happy to be wrong. The woman had gone from potential victim to his fearless defender. There was a sense of comradery between them. Even though they had not exchanged a single word; they were in this together.

“Wha—What the FUCK?!” the leader cried.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 had fallen on top of one another and scrambled to get to their feet. The driver had finally placed the vehicle in park and joined the encounter. He was an older man who put on a brave face.

“What the hell is going on back here?” He roared. “Break it up and get the hell off my bus!”

Reid peaked around the silent woman, who currently had her assailant immobilized on his knees, and outstretched his badge so that the driver could see. 

“I’m with the FBI, sir!” he called out, “Please, get to safety and call 911!” 

The driver did not argue and ran out of the front exit.

Reid put away his badge and reached for his phone. He would need to call for back-up too. While he punched desperately through his contacts, Thing 1 finally regained his position.

“Tucker, Devon—!” their leader hollered in their general direction, perilously crawling at the wrist that held his, “—Get this **_BITCH_ ** off me!”

_Famous last words_ , Reid thought to himself.

The woman had heard enough. Whatever level of control she was able to maintain when the three men decided to lapidate their garbage at her was now long gone. She raised her free hand and quickly struck him across the face with the back of a closed fist. His head snapped to the side upon impact, causing him to fall over and hit the edge of the row of chairs directly with his skull on the way down. With one fell swoop, she knocked him out clean.

Reid noticed his mystery protector stumble in place. He had entirely forgotten about the bottle he spotted earlier in her coat pocket. While she was nonetheless fearsome, she was, however, _drunk_. 

Thing 1 helped Thing 2 to his feet. Thing 1 (who was assumed to be ‘Tucker’) turned and focused his eyes on his friend. 

“Oh, shit! Lewis got cold-cocked!” Tucker yelled, quickly lunging at the woman on instinct. Thing 2 (‘Devon’) followed suit.

The call connected to the operator.

“Yes! This is SSA Dr. Spencer Reid, calling for immediate backup! I’m at—” He looked out the windows for some clue as to their location, but could not see in the vast night.

“—Crap!”

Tucker swung at the woman with his right arm, but she managed to dodge by stepping ever so slightly backward. Reid jumped away after she nearly knocked into him. While Tucker’s arm floated by her at eye level, the woman grabbed his forearm, pulled him forward, and thrust it hard against the closest hand pole. His bones cracked around the metal and snapped in half. Tucker screamed in agony while gazing upon his mangled appendage and staggering backward.

Reid cringed, but continued to search for a street sign through the tinted shuttle windows. There was little he could do but call for help, and not being able to determine their exact location frustrated him. All he could do was guess. He recalled the number of stops he counted. “Listen, we’re somewhere between—”

Tucker fell against Devon, who stood behind him in shock. Devon caught his friend by the shoulders before he could fall to the ground completely and laid him down softly.

“—MLK Boulevard—”

The woman stepped over a sleeping Lewis. Devon moved past a blubbering Tucker as his arm reached for his concealed gun on the other side of his hip.

“—and Maple Ridge!—”

The woman was on him before he could completely unholster the gun from the waistband of his pants. One hand caught his elbow, stopping it from going forward, while the other grappled with his hand that clutched the grip. 

“—There are three assailants!—”

She swung her head back and slammed it against his forehead, putting him in a daze.

“—They are armed and d—”

The pain from the collision caused Devon’s hand to tighten. The gun went off, shooting him in the leg. He dropped the gun immediately. The loud pop of gunfire in close quarters reverberated against the metal walls of the bus.

“—SHOTS FIRED!” Reid recoiled against the noise, dropping his phone on accident.

There was a horrendous ringing in everyone’s ears, blocking out the sound of Devon’s screaming. Reid’s hands found the sides of his head while the woman seemed mostly unphased.

The smell of iron danced in the air, hand-in-hand with the residual gun smoke. Blood pooled from Devon’s wound. His leg gave out from beneath him, causing him to falter to his knees. The woman seized the opportunity to get the upper hand. On his way down, she released his arm, grabbed both sides of his head, and rammed it against her knee. Devon toppled to the ground.

He was going to have quite the headache later.

From where he laid on the floor, a weakened Tucker spotted the gun. It had somehow found its way to him in the scuffle. He let out a throaty whimper, feeling every broken shard that pierced into his torn tendons. Mustering all the strength he had left, he reached for it with his one good arm. It was his last resort; his last hope. His efforts were, however, in vain.

His hand hovered slowly over the handle, but a worn black boot found it first. He looked up, eyes meeting with those of the woman who has alone taken down his two brutish pals. There was nothing he could do to stop the tears.

The woman kicked the gun to the side. Tucker attempted to stand, unsure about what he would do next. He didn’t have to ponder long as the woman grabbed his throat with one hand. Her fingers and thumb squeezed on each side of his neck against the carotid artery like a cobra, causing him to gasp for what little oxygen he could manage to inhale. He felt his legs give out as his vision began to fade. All he could do was scratch at the hand he feared would take his life. 

She forced the broken man to stare closely into her eyes, looming over him while he fell slowly to his knees. They were a nihility; devoid of everything, save for the rage that now tunneled into him. It was as if he was staring down the barrels of a loaded shotgun, and bullets knew not of mercy.

For the first time in Tucker's miserable life, he felt regret.

It wasn’t long before Reid regained his senses. He picked up his phone and brought it to his ear. The operator was still on the line, calling out to him through a cracked screen, asking him if he was okay. He wanted to reply, but the shock from what he had witnessed took over. The woman was standing motionless over the last goon. Reid hoped, for her sake, that he was still alive.

Finally, the silence that they had once shared returned to them. Only the sound of the woman’s labored breathing remained. She looked over her shoulder briefly to see if the Doctor was still there and let out a single sigh before turning completely. Her anger had dissipated by now, but she still had a vacancy in her eyes that Reid could not explain. 

The doctor felt that it was now safe to approach her. He held his hands up in a defensive position and walked towards her slowly. He knew there was no reason to fear her, but assuming that she was in a cloudy, adrenaline-drunk state, he wanted to make it very clear that he was on her side. 

“It’s over now.” He spoke calmly, stepping over the motionless men.

Red and blue flashing lights spilled through the windows. A faint siren grew louder as the police neared their location. The Doctor had to act fast.

“The authorities are going to be here soon. They’re going to have to detain you, okay? I can explain to them what happened, but first, you’re going to have to put your hands above y—”

“I know the drill, Agent.” She interrupted, slowly raising her hands to the back of her head as she got down on her knees.

It was the first time she had spoken since he got on the bus. Her voice was low and almost sultry, carrying an odd weight of authority. Or, maybe it was confidence? Reid often mistook the two. Either way, he was happy to hear it. It gave her some humanity.

First responders rushed out of their cars and headed for the bus. Their boots stomped heavily against the steel steps—service weapons in hand.

Reid followed procedure and held up his badge while identifying himself to the officers. His eyes never left hers as they brought her arms down behind her back, slapped on the cuffs, and walked her off the bus.

“What the hell happened here?!” One of the officers asked.

Reid scanned the chaos before him and shook his head.

“I have no goddamned clue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Icon made by [Freepik](https://www.flaticon.com/authors/freepik))


	2. A Name, At Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡ If you find the classic book formatting annoying to read, please click the "Hide Creator's Style" button at the top of the page to revert it back to the default AO3 style. ♡
> 
> [No TWs for this chapter.]

* * *

David Rossi raced out of elevators. He couldn’t get back to the office soon enough. He was almost home, where he planned to sit by his fireplace with a glass of properly aged wine before heading straight to bed, when he received a call he never thought would come. He had never done a u-turn so fast in his entire life.

Aaron Hotchner was waiting for him by the threshold.

“Dave!” He said. There was no time for greetings.

“Is it her?” Rossi caught his breath. “Is it her, Aaron?”

“I think so. She had no ID on her so we couldn’t run anything through Missing Persons, but we did find a match through facial recognition. Sadly there isn't very much to look at. Garcia is attempting to gather more information now. There’s something else—”

Rossi let out a sigh that had been sitting in his lungs for years.

“How is she?” he interrupted.

“...Good, all things considered. We have her in interview room five. Reid is with her now. I convinced the local PD to let us handle things so we could question her here.” 

Hotchner ushered Rossi forward. They hurried down the long hallway.

“Is she injured?”

“Not sure. She refused medical treatment.”

“That sounds like her.”

“How long has it been since you two last spoke?”

“Too long. Did I hear right? She took down three thugs on a bus that the kid just happened to be on?”

Hotchner nodded. “That’s the short version of the story, yes. You should see the footage we pulled from the bus, Dave. She’s been trained, and not by some commercial gym coach.”

“She spent her childhood being trained, remember?”

They reached interview room five.

“Not like this.”

Through the one-sided glass, Rossi saw a face he thought he had forgotten. A wave of relief shot through his veins, making his legs feel weak. It was her, alright. She was different. Her face (albeit aged) was the same, but the way she sat, the look in her eyes, the aura that surrounded her...it was all different. Something happened to her in the years since she ran off, something bad, and Rossi was eager to find out what. He _needed_ to know.

Hotchner stopped Rossi before he could move to the door.

“Dave, there’s something else you should know before going in there.”

“Oh?”

“The results from the facial ID—”

Hotchner handed Rossi a thin manila folder. There was a name on the tab that he didn't recognize.

“—If it is her—”

“It is, I'm sure of it.”

“—then she’s changed her name.”

* * *

The adrenaline that muted your pain had long since worn off, but ignoring the throbbing in your forehead and knuckles was an easy enough task. The fact that a few superficial injuries bothered you at all told you that you were off your game. Things had not been going your way today, as was made perfectly evident by the cold, metal cuffs that currently chafed your wrists.

You were innocent, of course. You had acted in self-defense, but the cops wouldn’t exactly settle for the ol’ _“he started it first”_ excuse before they would release you—even with that lanky agent there as a witness. They confiscated your personal effects (whiskey included) and took your prints along with a few headshots. You were told that it was procedure and that you weren't under arrest, but because you weren't carrying any form of ID and refused to give a name, they had to book you as if you were. They needed a name to put with the face. You knew then that it was only a matter of time before you were discovered and the lengthy series of interviews began. What they discovered and how much? Well, that was anybody's guess. Even you had no idea what remnants of your past remained in this world.

However, you had expected to be brought to the local precinct for booking and questioning, not an FBI interrogation room. Around two hours ago, while you sat tired and hazy in the back of the police cab, you witnessed the lanky agent making a call. He must be the reason you're here and not in the cold, musty arms of local law enforcement. You didn’t know whether to thank him or punch him.

Of all the FBI offices in all of the world, _this_ is the one you found yourself in? _This_ is the one that the good doctor just _happened_ to work out of? It had to be karma; your past was catching up to you. It wouldn’t be long before it walked through the door, demanding answers to questions it had been sitting on for years, but you really wished it would hurry the fuck up. 

You had an outstanding date with a man made of lead, and you didn’t want to keep him waiting.

The aforementioned Dr. G-man sat diagonally from you on the other side of the wooden table. He was perfectly poised while continuing to read the book he had started on the bus as if nothing happened. At the rate he was reading, he would be finished before you were released. Hell, he’d probably be finished in the next ten minutes. 

From what you could make out, the book was titled _Amaranth_ , a type of flower whose name means “the undying flower”. The name was possibly borrowed from the Aesop Fable _The Rose and the Amaranth._ You just so happened to know the tale well. Your thoughts began to recite it:

_“..._ _But thou art immortal and dost never fade, but bloomest for ever in renewed youth.”_

You blinked a few times and shook your head lightly, bringing yourself back to the present.

The paperback book itself was weathered; the corners of the pages—yellowed with age—were curled and the spine had long since been broken. There were no signs of abuse that you would associate with a borrowed book or one that had been thrown haphazardly into a backpack. No scuffs, dings, stains, or anything of the sort. To see that type of wear meant that he cared a great deal for the novel, and this certainly wasn’t his first time reading it. Your best bet was that it was a gift. Perhaps from a significant other or a parent (your money was on the mother. He seemed like a mama’s boy.).

You didn’t know why, maybe it was his childish, mop-like hair or the way he came to your aid without hesitation back on the bus, but you liked him. And you didn’t like most people. Or anyone, really. The sweet man initially made an effort to speak to you on the way here, asking for your name and such. But, given the situation, you didn’t really feel like talking and decidedly gave him the cold shoulder. It wasn’t every day that you were woken up from a bender to find yourself in a game of close-quarters fisticuffs. You were completely drained, and his pestering wasn’t helping. Besides, he’d find out your name soon eventually.

He conceded his efforts after a while and acted as if he was no longer interested in anything you had to say. That was, of course, just an act. Intentional. He wanted to make the silence so unbearable that you would be compelled to talk. Therapists employ the same methods. Or, at least, all of _your_ therapists did. Normally you would never give in to such a cheap tactic out of pride, as your therapists would find out, but there was something on your mind that had been bugging you since you got off the bus—the ice-breaker question you asked most strangers. It was a rather weird one, so you would have to build up to it but finding a way to bring it up naturally. 

“You haven’t asked about my name in some time, Doctor.” You broke the silence.

Reid gave a straightforward reply, never looking up from his book, “Would you have answered truthfully?”

“Touché.” You paused. “Where’s your gun?” 

(That wasn’t your question.)

“In my locker.” 

“Hm,” you cocked your head. “So, you don’t prefer to be strapped at all times?”

“Should I be?”

“The world is a dangerous place. Which, in your line of work, I'm sure you’re well aware of,” you raised your eyebrows and looked around the room. You briefly made direct eye contact with the stoic guard by the door. “I guess I’m just used to you big bad federal bulldogs whipping out your sidearms at the slightest scent of imperilment.”

Reid closed his book and laid it flat on the table.

“‘Big’ and ‘bad’ are not exactly descriptors that have been associated with me,” he fainted a smile. “Or even ‘bulldog’, if I’m being completely honest.”

That much you believed. There was a softness about him that was unfamiliar to you when it came to men in his field. He certainly didn’t fit into the FBI stereotype.

The agent continued, his voice accelerating as he got more and more invested in the topic, “Actually, I’d be more akin to the likeness of a poodle. They’re widely known for being hyper-intelligent and are considered to be ‘A’ students when it comes to training. It’s interesting: while their true origins are highly debated, the name ‘poodle’ actually comes from the German word ‘ _pudelin_ ’—which literally means ‘splashing in the water’—since they were originally bred for duck hunting and have a high affinity for swimming. Their coat is even water-resistant and cut for functionality, not fashion.”

_He just knew all that off the top of his head?_ You thought to yourself. It would seem that this “Dr. Reid” person was uniquely intelligent. That explained the softness. What he lacked in brawn, he made up for in brains. He spilled knowledge as if he were directly plugged into the Google Search engine. Unbeknownst to him, he had answered the question that nagged at you before you could even ask it. 

You couldn’t help but smile as he rambled on. It was an endearing quality. He spoke with such assuredness that it was hard not to just trust his word as gospel. You could probably listen to him talk for hours.

Reid noticed the look on your face. His face turned a slight shade of pink and sunk into his seat sheepishly.

“N-not that my own hair has any of those traits—,” he interrupted himself, mirroring your look, “—Why are you smiling?”

You answered freely, “This might sound goofy, but I’ve found that what kind of dog we associate ourselves with tends to reveal a lot about one’s character and how we see ourselves. Not that our assessments are particularly true, as they are based on both good and bad personal biases, but there is something to be learned there if interpreted delicately.”

The truth was, it was one of your favorite questions to ask during interviews or interrogations. What kind of dog, or animal in general, someone saw themselves as told you more information about their self-perception and assisted you in narrowing down who they truly were. It was the kind of thing that people took those ridiculous Facebook personality quizzes to find out. Even though, deep down, most already know the answer in their hearts but hoped that the quiz results would reflect the same to give them a sense of affirmation. Silly, maybe, but it was entirely normal for any human; the desire to understand more about yourself and how you fit into the world. It was something you could sympathize with.

A poodle is fitting, you thought, but it’s not what you would have picked. 

“Is that so?” He asked. “Well then, was my self-assessment accurate?”

You shrugged. “Maybe. Only you know the real answer.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“Oh?”

“You must have formed some sort of opinion on me by now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I only met you, like, what? Three hours ago, at most? That’s not nearly enough time for anyone to form a realistic impression of a person. Certainly not of someone that they haven’t been properly introduced to yet.”

“Something tells me you’re better at reading people than you let on.”

Your head cocked to the side curiously. He leaned forward and laced his fingers together, placing them atop his beloved book.

“Seriously!” He continued, egging you on. “Based on your conclusions, is there a dog that fits me better than a poodle?”

Dr. Reid absolutely delighted you. He _definitely_ was a profiler, and a good one, at that. He was attempting to get a read on you based solely on how you read him. It was cute. Usually, you enjoyed a good game of cat and mouse, but unfortunately, you knew his moves. He was attempting to lower your guard with friendly conversation in order to learn more about you—to extract information. But, why exactly? It wasn’t as if you were a wanted criminal (despite what the cuffs might suggest). All you did was beat up a couple of losers for him. What did he want from you?

You took a brief moment to ponder, readying a response.

That’s when the past finally decided to join the two of you in the interview room, just like you knew he soon would. The game between you and the agent would have to wait.

The salt and pepper man shut the door behind him and took a moment to stare at you. His hands clutched to a manila folder, taking a deep breath. It had been years since you saw David Rossi, and things didn’t go so smoothly the last time the two of you spoke. You could only hope that time and old age had healed him of that memory, but Lady Luck had not been on your side lately. You prepared yourself for a verbal lashing.

“Oh my, what a large file you have!” you said sarcastically, offering the older man a coy look. It wasn’t much of a ‘hello’, but he seemed to be experiencing some shell shock, so you attempted to break the tension with humor.

Rossi shook his head and chuckled, “I see nothing has changed. You’re still a smug little brat.” He slapped the folder on the table and took a seat next to Reid. He was teetering somewhere between molten-hot rage and utter relief. He did his best to stay calm. “You look like hell, kid.”

“Hello to you too, Rossi. It’s been a while. I’d hug you, but—” You raised your arms, palms up, showing off the bracelets that bound your wrists. “—I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

Rossi motioned to the guard, who then came over to remove the cuffs. 

“No need,” You shook the cuffs from your wrists and let them fall to the table with a loud _clang!_ “I hope you don’t mind, but I helped myself. They were starting to chafe!”

Reid and the guard exchanged wide-eyed looks as you handed the cold bracelets back to the officer along with the key you palmed earlier.

Rossi almost looked as if he was proud.

“H-hey now!” the officer stammered. “How did you—?”

Rossi answered for you. “She picked your pocket, son. I would suggest checking for your wallet next.”

The guard panicked, feeling his backside pockets. His wallet really was gone. Everyone turned to you, expecting you to produce it. 

“What?” You shrugged. “I don’t have it! Honestly, you think too little of me, David.”

Right then, Reid felt something in his pocket that he hadn’t noticed before as he shifted in his seat. He reached around and pulled out a thin, black pleather wallet.

You inhaled a loud, exaggerated gasp and pointed at him. 

“ _J’accuse_ …!” You shouted. “I told you!”

Spencer’s jaw went slightly agape as he marveled at the black, pleather-bound wallet. Sleight of hand was one of the first magic tricks he learned. And oh, how he loved magic. Even if he knew all the moves, seeing them performed first hand always impressed him. _You_ impressed him. He thought back, attempting to deduce at what point you were able to slip the wallet into his pocket without him taking notice, but he was coming up blank. 

“When?” He searched your face for an answer.

You tilted your head to the side. He had such big, wondrous eyes.

“A magician never reveals their secrets.”

Rossi snatched the wallet away and handed it to the guard, who then quickly made his way back to his spot.

“Alright! Enough flirting, you two,” said the senior agent.

Reid broke eye contact with you and shied back into his seat.

_More blushing?_

“Dr. Reid, I’d like to introduce you to—”

Your heart stopped.

“—the very annoying Odessa Jayne.”

Rossi handed the folder to the Doctor as your heart found it’s normal rhythm again. SSA David Rossi was one of the few people left on this planet that knew your real name; your real history. You were elated when he didn’t share it with the rest of the class. It had taken what felt like a lifetime to build your new identity and, even if you didn’t plan on sticking around very much longer, you didn’t want to ruin your streak of going years without hearing your deadname.

“It’s nice to formally meet you, Odessa,” Reid said, pleased to finally hear your name. He began to read through the file.

“My friends call me ‘Odie’,” you lied. You didn't have friends.

"Like the dog from _Garfield_?"

"Like the dog."

Rossi rolled his eyes.

The Doctor cleared his throat. “Do the two of you know each other?”

“You could say that.”

Reid flipped the final page in the folder. His expression turned stern. He closed it and placed it back down on the table.

“I’m just another stray that Rossi and his team of daring detectives recused from a life of misfortune forever ago. Nothing much more beyond that,” you attempted to keep things as vague as possible.

“‘ _Nothing much more?_ ’” Rossi huffed. “That's an understatement.”

A bead of sweat found its way down your back. 

Rossi changed the subject, “You weren’t carrying any ID when they brought you in and your name was nowhere in any database we have access to. Not even the Missing Persons report! Luckily, our facial recognition program found something, but this is all we could come up with—”

He turned the file as he slid it across the table and opened it for you to see. You sat straight up. A photo of your mugshot (smirk and all) from your early years was paperclipped to the corner. The top document was titled “ _Jayne, Odessa_ ”, but that was all it revealed. Everything (literally, everything) in the folder was redacted. There wasn’t a single piece of printed text that was legible, save for the page numbers at the bottom of each sheet.

“—And we only got _that much_ after our technical analyst had to practically sift through the mud!” Rossi continued. “After reading that ‘file’, it’s obvious she’ll have to continue her search.”

You weren’t surprised to hear that. The name on that Missing Persons report was the old you, not the imposter that sat before them today. And the old you had been wiped from the world for a decade now by the powers that be. No traces were left behind. No Mission Persons, no criminal record, nothing. Hell, they even took your Ben & Jerry’s punch card. Nothing was sacred. The existence of this folder puzzled you, but at least it was under your new name.

You unclipped the photo of yourself and held it closer to your face. A feeling of warmth overcame you as you recalled the day you were arrested. You were younger and so much wilder then. Able to talk yourself out of any situation. Well, every situation except that one. _‘Obstruction of Justice’_ , they called it. Whatever. They were just mad that you solved the murder before they did.

“Can I keep this?” You asked. “They really captured my good side.”

“This isn’t a joke, Jayne.” His voice was harsh.

“And this isn’t a criminal interrogation, _Agent Rossi._ ” Your attitude shifted to match his. No more games, you had to be stern if you were ever going to get out of there. You placed your hands flat and firm on the table. “I have committed no crime. In fact, I saved your handsome friend here. So, unless you’re planning on reading me my Miranda Rights or handing me some sort of ‘Civilian of the Year’ award—”

His voice was kinder now, “Listen… You’ve been _missing_ for almost _ten years_ now. One day you were here, and the next I’m getting a call from the Nowaks, asking if I had heard from you. Years go by without any contact, and then, _poof!_ You reappear! Here, in Virginia, of all places. Not to mention you beat the absolute snot out of some poor bastards as if you were James Bond himself.”

He paused to take a silent breath and center himself. He was getting worked up.

“We have questions. _I_ have questions.—”

Rossi leaned forward and placed his hand over yours. His palm was gentle against your bruised knuckles.

“—What the hell happened to you?”

You hadn't realized just how touch-starved you were until that very moment. You flipped your hand under his and let your thumb trace circles gingerly against his skin. It was the very same hand that only a couple hours earlier nearly choked the life out of a fellow man without hesitation. Now it found itself tamed; calmed from the comfort of an old friend, as if to be an entirely different beast. It was the duality of man, you supposed. One born from the remnants of broken youth.

Eyes fell to the abrasions on your wrist. They were a gift from the cowering claws of the bus boys, and you earned each and every one of them. Not because of what you did to them, they deserved much worse than a few broken bones, but because of what you had done in the past.

Memories flashed before you, both bitter and beautiful. You became lost in the years that flew by. The sound of an innocent child giggling echoed ever so faintly in the far corners of your mind, completely out of reach. Joy washed over you. Until—

_Gunfire. A single shot._

_The smell of rot wafted in the air._

_Blood soaked sheets._

_An unbelievable horror._

“Odessa?”

The sound of Rossi’s voice brought you back.

You didn’t realize you were squeezing his hand. A burning sensation tingled under your eyelids. You leaned back again, freeing yourself from Rossi’s palms. You didn’t want him to see you cry.

You couldn’t imagine how awkward this exchange must have been for Dr. Reid.

“I can’t tell you where I’ve been, Rossi,” you said with crossed arms. “Or anything of that nature. You’re just going to have to accept that. I’m sorry, I really am.” 

The truth would die with you.

“See, that's the thing—I can't accept it!”

“You don’t have a choice.” You pushed out your chair and stood. “Now, where do I go to retrieve my belongings. It’s been one hell of a nigh—”

The metal legs of Rossi’s chair scraped obnoxiously across the floor as he shot up, putting his hand up as if to stop you.

“You maimed those boys on the bus tonight!,” He shouted. “Two of them are in surgery and the other will be recovering from that skull fracture for weeks! The young girl I knew all those years ago, the one that nearly passed out from scraping her knee? She wasn’t capable of that kind of violence… Even if it was in someone’s defense.”

You could hear the pain in his voice. He was scared. If not of you, then _for_ you. He desperately wanted answers, probably just as much as the Nowaks, but there was nothing in this world that could break your silence. You knew he meant well, but you had spent the last decade hurting demons all over the world. The things you’d seen—the things you’d _done_ —no one could never know of. Not just because the government demanded it, but because you would be putting their lives at great risk. This was your cross to carry, no one else's.

“That’s just it, Rossi.” You bit your lip. “I’m not that girl anymore. She died a long time ago.”

Rossi scoffed, “Then tell me, who the hell is standing in front of me now?”

You felt your lip quiver.

“A memory.”

Rossi rolled his eyes. Before he could say more, the door burst open. A well-dressed man with dark hair made his way in. Following close behind was an older, shorter woman in a dress suit that made her look like the First Lady. Neither of them seemed happy to see you. 

The man carried with him yet another file. This time, it was much thicker. _Much_ , much thicker. You realized now that the real interview was about to begin. 

“Leave us,” the man said to the guard. “You too, Reid.”

The Doctor, who had been politely silent for a while now, gave you an empathetic look. He stood and made his way out the door behind the guard.

“Shetland,” you said in a hurry.

Reid stopped in the doorway then turned back to you.

“What?”

“Shetland Sheepdog. That’s what kind of dog you are.”

The dark-haired man closed the curtains to the interview room window. The woman used a remote to turn off the cameras. Rossi returned to his seat, deflated.

A content smile returned to Reid’s face. You couldn’t help but mirror the expression, it was infectious. 

“Why’s that?”

“You’re a smart cookie,” you said, sitting slowly back in your chair. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

The older woman gave the Doctor an impatient look, causing him to visibly gulp and hurry out the room, but not before giving you a small wave goodbye. You missed his bright presence already the minute the door slammed shut. Even when the woman began to talk, you couldn’t help but keep your eyes glued to the door, willing him to come back.

She introduced herself. “I’m BAU Section Chief Erin Strauss and this is Unit Chief SSA Aaron Hotchner.”

You were familiar with Hotchner. His name traveled through the grapevine as he rose in the BAU ranks. He didn’t say a word, not even hello. He handed Rossi the file he brought with him and turned his attention to you. Did this man ever stop glaring?

“And you must be Odessa Jayne,” Strauss continued.

“Must be,” you bit your tongue. You _really_ wanted to leave now.

“Or should I call you—”

She called you by your real name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Icon made by [Freepik](https://www.flaticon.com/authors/freepik) )


	3. Światło

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡ If you find the classic book formatting annoying to read, please click the "Hide Creator's Style" button at the top of the page to revert it back to the default AO3 style. ♡
> 
> [TW: confided spaces, kidnapping, implied/referenced violence against children.]
> 
> I am getting a bit lost in my approach to writing the continuation of chapter 2, so I'm adding a small flashback chapter. I know it's early, but this is very important to the plot. 
> 
> Also, I apologize to anyone who speaks Polish. I have butchered the language, I think. Please correct me if I'm wrong! I'll put the "translations" in the bottom notes.

* * *

It was your fault.

It was your fault you were here.

Trapped.

Locked away.

You knew from experience that any child who found themselves here rarely ever returned.

Would you be one of them?

Would you return?

If only you had run a little faster. Or, maybe, if only you had not tried to run at all.

It was Tuesday when Mr. Waters put you in the box. He caught you trying to hop the wired fence during yard duty. You were almost to the top when he grabbed you by the waist and yanked you to the ground. That earned you a few kicks to the ribs. Mr. Waters had no tolerance for disobedient children. He would have to make an example out of you.

How much time had passed, you wondered? Minutes? Days? You had no idea. The box had no windows, no light. The solid blackness that engulfed you was all you could see. Sometimes, you would shut your eyes as hard as possible, wait a few moments, and then open them back up slowly. You had hoped to will the darkness away—to wake back up in your bed at the Nowaks’—but no matter how many times you repeated it; you met the same darkness that you had previously only seen hidden behind your eyelids. When you opened them back up, there was no difference—as if you hadn’t even closed your eyes at all. 

Wait—had you? Had you closed your eyes, or were you going mad?

You tested it again.

Open.

Closed.

Open again.

Nope, still the abyss.

Luckily for you, you had outgrown your fear of the dark by now. _Matka_ Ana had said it was a childish fear and would not allow it to continue. Not while you were living under her roof.

 _“The dark is a friend,”_ she’d say in her thick Polish accent. _“And we do not cower from a friend. Without it, there could not be light and the universe would have no balance. It is a piece of something larger than ourselves. We have to embrace it, accept it for who it is. Only when you conquer this fear will you even begin to understand why.”_

You were eight years old when she started weaning you off the nightlight. You were resistant at first. Sometimes you would turn it back on after she left, but it didn’t last long until she noticed and gave you a tongue lashing. Now, you were nearly twelve, and you couldn’t have been more grateful for her.

For several weeks, she would whisper soothing words into your ears. Her voice was soft and hypnotic. They were words of strength; words that filled you with the confidence to tackle anything. She would then dim the nightlight just a bit. Every night she would repeat this, each time dimming the light further and further. Until, eventually, she didn’t turn it on at all, and you hadn’t even noticed. You knew she wasn’t magic, _Tato_ Roman had revealed that much to you not long after they agreed to foster you, but that didn’t stop you from falling for it every time. You wanted to believe there was something mystical about her. About both of them.

Anyone who visited their caravan at the carnival knew them as fortune tellers, but in reality, they were just skilled performers. “Mentalists”, Roman claimed (whatever that meant). Their customers believed they could do the impossible: read minds, see the future, converse with the dearly departed, _et cetera_ . They might not have been able to read minds, but they could read _people._ They were very good at it, too. Enough that they could convince any chump they were legit.

 _“You were born into this world alone, moja_ _mała króliczka,”_ Roman said one day during tutoring. _“Caught adrift on a wind of misfortune. But you are not alone now. We might not be your actual parents, but we are still Rodzina_ _—family. We will teach you what we know as if you were our own flesh and blood.”_

 _“There are people in this world who will seek to break you.”_ Ana cupped your face. Her eyes sparkled like amber jewels _. ‘If they catch you, they will kill you. But first, they must catch you’. Być dzielna, we will not let them catch you.”_

All the hours spent learning their trade—wasted. Their tutelage meant very little now. You were caught; Mr. Waters caught you. The honeyed words of mentalism could not save you from a 6’1” pied piper and his magic melody. What a fool you were for believing them.

Open.

Closed.

Open again.

Nothing.

Panic crept its way into your brain. _Matka_ would be so disappointed in you if she saw you now.

Loose splinters from the wooden walls of the crate poked at your flesh. The space was tight and allowed little room to move. Mr. Waters had to order you to curl into a ball just to fit in. Your muscles cramped and ached, begging you to stretch. 

A pain shot through your calf. A spasm so great, you felt your stomach turn. It couldn’t be helped, you had to cry. You attempted to shift in your spot just a little, hoping the movement would alleviate the misery, if even just a little. There was no telling how long your captor would keep you in here, so you had to find a way to persevere past this. _Survive. Stop crying._ You had to _move._ Inches, centimeters, millimeters—anything would do. 

Panic took over. The air was thin. Your chest grew tight as you struggled to breathe. Even in the darkness, you could feel the room spinning. Sweat soaked your brow. You hadn’t noticed how hot it was in there until now. You didn’t want to die here; you wanted to go back home. _Matka_ Ana must be worried sick. If the dark was truly a “friend”, as she said, it was a poor one.

 _“Odetchnąć,”_ you heard a voice say. It spoke at barely a whisper.

You felt something on your back, right underneath your neck. It was a tranquilizing warmth; the hand of a memory. The spirit was light—ethereal—and seeped into your spine, traveling to your every nerve.

Your mind was recalling something.

 _“Odetchnąć,_ _mała króliczka.” Tato_ Roman rubbed your back gently, following a rhythm. _“Slowly now. In… out… In… And out again. Listen to the sound of my voice. Follow it. As you do, you will feel yourself becoming light_ _—floating lithely with a winter breeze. You surrender to it. All that ails you, all that begets dread, is a speck in the distance. Small. Insignificant. In… Out... It cannot bother you. It cannot hurt you. You are above it now, and you fear nothing. When I count to three, you will open your eyes and continue to float away from it. You will not fear. Ready? One… Two… Three—”_

And that was that.

Calm.

Serenity.

The pain became smaller until it was no more. 

Maybe all was not wasted on you.

Ana was right. You had to embrace the moment here in the dark, accept it as it is. Work with it, partner with it. The blackness of the crate came with the gift of solitude. This, you could use. There was nothing here in the vast abyss to harm you, to disturb your thoughts, and keep you from your goal. So you did as Roman said: _“odetchnąć”—_ Breathe. 

_Stay calm._

_In..._

_Out…_

_In..._

_Get it together!_

_Matka’s_ voice echoed.

_“If they catch you, they will kill you…”_

_Think!_

You were caught, that much was true, but not killed. Yet. For the moment, you were still alive. Why? You didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. You just had to go with it. Focus. You had to escape; to run and keep running. Even if your feet blistered and bled, you could not stop. Not this time.

There had to be a way out of this. You missed _Matka_ and _Tato_ so deeply.

You grabbed around the barriers that held you as much as you could manage in a desperate attempt to rotate. You pushed lightly against the wood to test its sturdiness. It was surprisingly thinner than you thought. The harder you pressed, the more it warped. You pushed until it gave all it could give, but it wouldn’t break.

That’s when you felt it. Your hands brushed against a small object. There—in the bottom corner! A small, skinny rod made of some sort of metal. The object matched the length of your palm and felt rusted as you picked it up. One end was flat, the other was sharp.

A nail.

Mr. Waters must not have noticed it when he forced you into the crate and sealed the heavy top above you. You stifled a sob as you mentally thanked the darkness for the gift, hiding it away until it was time for you to act.

An idea came to you, but you would have to wait for the right time to start. It was too early—too quiet—and you couldn’t risk making a sound that might alert your captor.

You held the nail close, closed your eyes, and murmured to yourself.

_“Być dzielna...”_

Be brave.

So you waited.

And waited…

And waited…

Waiting…

Waiting…

Wait…

Hours seemed to pass. Your eyes grew heavy as sleep threatened to overtake you.

Just above, outside your entombment, the floorboards creaked under the heavyweight of thick work boots.

He was home.

 _“Odetchnąć_ _..._ _”_

You chased the Sandman from your mind.

Just a little longer.

Mr. Waters marched around for a bit. Back and forth, back and forth. The smell of cooked meat wafted in the air, somehow finding its way to you. It must have been close to dinnertime. Your stomach aches. You could not remember when you had eaten last.

More marching. 

He let out a yell, but the distance between you muffled it.

“𝙼𝚘𝚟𝚎! 𝙶𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝! 𝙶𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚕𝚕 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝”

His voice was rotten—hideous. Its ambiance was akin to that of nails on a chalkboard. Maybe once his soul might have contained a semblance of humanity, but it abandoned him long ago. He snuffed it out, leaving only demons to fill the empty flesh that remained.

Footsteps scurried away. They were much lighter. More swift, too. 

He must have been hollering at one of the other children. You had almost forgotten about them in the chaos. You feared that it was Lizzie on the receiving end. Most of the others are around your age, but she is the youngest. Six of you remained and, out of everyone, she has been with Mr. Waters the longest. This made him way more lenient with her than the others, but you still worried nonetheless, for you knew what he was capable of.

They were depraved, abominable things; things that sat in your mind, germinating until you craved nothing more than to peel the skin from your bones. He robbed you of your childhood and wrought nothing but suffering, horror, and death. All you could do was to endure. No matter how many bones he shattered, no matter how many scars he birthed on your mangled wisp of a spirit, you had to carry on.

Days following your abduction, she quickly latched on to you and hardly ever left your side. It was bothersome at first. It pained you to admit, but you had never had a friend before—not a real one, anyway—and found the company overwhelming. Yet, you grew to care for her deeply. When you asked Lizzie how long she had been here, she could not tell you. Nor could she tell you her exact age. She guessed around eight, but she could not count very well and didn’t know how to read a calendar. You feared her youthful naïveté and lack of education would threaten her life, but her time here taught her to use her wit. She was crafty—even more so than you, seeing as you were the one currently locked away for your hubris.

You made a silent oath to take Lizzie with you.

The voice found you again.

 _“Listen for it, mała króliczka_ _—_ _”_

Focus returned to you. You squirmed relentlessly until eventually you could rotate just enough to lay your back flat against the bottom of the crate. It forced your bruised legs to curl above you, tucking your knees into your chest. They could almost touch the crate’s ceiling.

You took the nail and held it upwards.

 _“_ _—You will not have long—”_

You hear faint, familiar sounds. A symphony of abbreviated, distorted voices and fragmented sounds. When one sound began, another quickly replaced it—each one entirely new. Mr. Waters must have started his nightly show marathon and was flipping through the channels.

His routine was the same every night; the same channel, the same show. Once he found what he was searching for, he would increase the volume to an overwhelmed level. You loathed it. Dreaded it. It gave you migraines. You would have never guessed that one day it could possibly save you instead of crippling you.

_“—So act fast—”_

The symphony fell silent. He found his channel. You gripped the rusted nail as tightly as you could with both hands, then placed the sharped, pointed end against the roof in the space directly above you.

 _“_ _—Because if he catches you—”_

Finally, you heard it—the siren song that could secure your freedom. The sound from the TV speakers boomed throughout the house.

**“Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise—”**

_“—this time, he_ will _kill you.”_

NOW.

You reeled your fists back as far as the confined space would allow and then trusted them forward repeatedly—stabbing relentlessly into the roof. Each time, the wood let out a loud, deep _CLUNK!_ If Mr. Waters heard, he would charge downstairs and put a stop to you. But he never would. Your plan was working. The monumental voice of Captain Jean-Luc Picard along with the boisterous theme song could smother any sound that you were capable of making.

**“—It’s continuing mission:—”**

Wood shaving fell in your eyes and into your mouth. They were bitter, dry, and stung mightily. You became tear-jerked as you spit to the side and wiped what remained on your skin away. You resumed your whittling, this time with closed eyes.

_CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK!_

**“—To explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life; new civilizations—”**

_CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK!_

The monologue was about to end, so you increased your speed.

You felt your stamina dwindling.

Just a little further...

_CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK!_

**“—To boldly go where no man has gone before!”**

_CLUNK! CLUN—POP!_

The nail no longer hit any resistance. It pierced through the final layer, emerging triumphant on the other side. The hole it made was tiny, nothing to write home about, but it was a start.

You let out a _“_ _thbbpt”_ with your lips to blow away any shaving that had fallen on your mouth. Finally clear, you pulled your arms back, taking the nail out.

A dim light instantly beamed down, hitting you directly in the pupil. It had been so long since you’d seen light of any kind that it made your heart jump with shock. You recoiled and veered your head away to escape it.

Your heart raced, and iron filled your lungs.

 _“Odetchnąć_ _."_

There was no way to describe how you felt. It was more than elation; it was miles above any exhilaration you had ever felt in your short time on earth. You finally let yourself have that cry you had been holding back. The tears paraded down your face into your ears and your nose became disgustingly runny. You blubbered and laughed hysterically as you wept. You didn’t care how loud it was; you were confident that the show would continue to dampen the noise.

You _loved_ Star Trek now.

You placed your finger over the hole and watched as the light disappeared and then returned the instant you removed it. You repeated this several times in disbelief, as if the light would abandon you—as if you imagined it. You questioned your sanity again.

Open.

Closed.

Once again greeted the vast midnight behind your eyelids. It _was_ your friend, after all! You thanked it for keeping you company, but it was time to say goodbye. Laying your hands against your chest, you took a moment. There was a rapid pounding—your heart was practically bursting from your flesh.

You were terrified. 

“Please, _please_ …” You begged. Your voice was low and hushed, as if to be praying.

Deep breath.

_“Open.”_

Your eyes shot open.

There it was.

The beam of light remained resolute.

Unyielding.

Indomitable.

 _“Kochamy cię, little rabbit,”_ Ana said. _“No matter where you go, there will be light. No matter how far you travel, we will love you. No matter how dark the path gets, you will find a way home.”_

_She kissed you on the forehead and dimmed the nightlight._

There was an unfortunate truth: your work wasn’t done, and you weren’t entirely sure where to go from here… but it was a start. There was hope. Decidedly, you took the nail and chipped away at the edges of the hole, making it larger little by little. You _needed_ more light. Splinters assailed you once again, but you did not care. You dared not look away. Regardless of how faint the lambency was, it was all you cared about. You were transfixed—

_“I promise.”_

—Raptured in its grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Światło" - Light  
> "Matka" - Mother (formal)  
> "Tato" - Father/Dad (informal)  
> "Moja mała króliczka"/"mała króliczka" - My little rabbit/little rabbit  
> "Rodzina" - Family  
> "Być dzielnam" - Be brave  
> "Odetchnąć" - Breathe  
> "Kochamy cię" - We love you
> 
> (Icon made by [photo3idea_studio](https://www.flaticon.com/free-icon/rabbit_2922202))


	4. Where Have You Been?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡ If you find the classic book formatting annoying to read, please click the "Hide Creator's Style" button at the top of the page to revert it back to the default AO3 style. ♡
> 
> [No TWs for this chapter.]
> 
> I re-wrote this chapter, like, 4 times now. This isn't my best work, but... whatever! I need to move on! There's a lot of exposition, probably too much, but I feel like this is something they'd actually do during an interrogation... maybe.

* * *

Your ten-year streak was broken.

“Well?” she asked. “Should I call you by your actual name, or this ‘Odessa Jayne’ persona you’ve created for yourself?”

Your tongue moved along your upper teeth in irritation, but you kept your face as stoic as you could. Your “actual name” was precious, sacred, and—most importantly—yours. No matter how far you strayed from your past, it would always be a part of you. It is something to treasure, but the manner in which the deadname rolled off of Strauss’ pitch-forked tongue pierced your eardrums, as if it was some slur—vulgar and taboo.

You laced your fingers together and gave Strauss direct eye contact, keeping your temper at bay. You were not easily intimidated and would not allow her to see you break.

“You could call me by _that name,_ but you’d be calling for a ghost.”

“And yet, here you are: a spectre in physical form,” she replied.

Hotchner took a seat next to Rossi in the vacant space left by Reid. You could tell by how he sat that he was attempting to appear relaxed to make you feel more comfortable, but you also got the distinct impression this man had not taken his doctor-prescribed chill pill in quite some time and most likely had no idea what being relaxed _actually_ looked like.

“I want to start off by saying that you are not under arrest and are in no danger here.” Hotchner finally spoke, His voice was deep and unflappable.

 _That’s cute,_ you thought to yourself. 

If anyone here truly posed a threat to you, you wouldn’t still be sitting here. You could ditch this taco stand at any point if you felt you needed to. It wasn’t cockiness; it was just a fact. But you appreciated his words anyhow. He was trying, at least.

“Never thought I was,” you said matter-of-factly.

“Everything that we will discuss here tonight will not leave these walls.”

“They won’t?”

“Yes,” Strauss said, “by order of the D/CIA herself.”

You let out a soft chuckle.

“The Director of the CIA? What does she have to do with any of this?” Rossi asked, looking between his two colleagues. “Do I even want to know what’s in this folder?”

“Oh, I think you do, Dave.” Strauss answered.

That wasn’t just any old file that he was holding—that was _your_ file. Your _real,_ highly classified (like, _Burn After Reading_ -level classified) file, there was no doubt about it. It was unique: solid black CIA insignia printed on the cover in a thin, white outline, with nothing on the tab except the name “JANE”. You had seen it only once in your life—the day you made a deal with the Devil—but even you had not been granted clearance to view its contents since then, despite the fact that everything it contained was about _you_.

Ten years of silence, of secrets, unearthed in only a matter of minutes. There was no helping it now. The jig was up. Your chickens were coming home to roost; Rossi was about to get the answers to all his questions, and possibly more. Discussing these things out loud went against everything you had trained for, and your already-weakened body was not prepared to deal with it. Out of reflex, your body fought to keep your lips sealed. You attempted to keep the dread at bay by drawing in as much air through your nose as you physically could, then let it all rush out through your mouth. Beads of sweat trickled down your back, bile built up in the back of your throat, and your head spun.

The forbidden folder was taunting you, and this entire night was turning into a waking night terror.

“I don’t know how you got your hands on _that_ , but I wouldn’t advise reading through it. Lotsa high-ranking officials would give up their left testicles to keep that information hidden.”

Strauss paced. “It’s a little late for that, I’m afraid.”

“Because you weren’t carrying identification, our technical analyst ran your picture through our facial recognition software when you arrived.” Hotchner explained. “While the search led us to discover your present identity, it also triggered a silent alert to the CIA.”

“It took all of twenty minutes before we had four fully armed CIA agents banging at our door, demanding an explanation as to why the _FBI_ was looking for information on one of their confidential operatives. Director Shaw contacted me personally to ask about your whereabouts.”

You were in disbelief. “Crabby Ol’ Barbs?” You asked. “Wow, I thought she would have retired by now! Is she here?”

Strauss shook her head and corrected you. “Her name is _‘Barbara’_ , not ‘Barbs’. And no, she’s not, but that doesn’t take away from the severity of the situation. Apparently, you’ve been AWOL for quite some time, and the CIA wants to know why.”

“Get in line!” Rossi leaned forward, thumbing the edges of the folder. His mind bounced back and forth, grappling with a difficult choice: should he read the file and risk learning about the horrible things they had involved you in, or just be content with the fact that you are alive and be willfully ignorant of the truth?

Rossi rested his palm flat on top of the file. “I’m not going to read this, I need to hear it from you. Don’t I deserve that much?”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. Yes, you owed Rossi your life, but you also swore an oath to your country. And while said oath meant nothing to you now (probably less than nothing), it was still your greatest wish that the few people on this Earth who gave even the smallest shit about your existence never learn of the monster that was made of you. Rossi was one of those few.

“...Of course you do,” you pursed your lips, “but, like I’ve already told you, I can’t—”

Rossi cut you off. “ _Can’t_ or won’t?”

“I _won’t_!”

“Why not?!”

“Because I don’t want you to look at me differently!”

Everyone paused awkwardly. You rubbed your eyes with your sweaty palms, resting your elbows on the table. The pressure against your eyeballs reminded you just how bad your head was hurting.

 _This is pathetic_ , you thought to yourself.

Rossi could feel his heart break. “...Buddy—”

“ _Ugh!_ ” You dragged your hands down your face, exaggerating your features before using them to cradle your jaw. “I told you not to call me that.”

“—There’s nothing in this folder that will change the way I look at you.”

“Then they really should revoke your badge for your terrible judgment.” You spoke sarcastically.

Hotchner surprised you by letting out a faint snicker. Rossi shot his friend a small glare.

“I’ve heard enough.” Strauss threw her hands up. “We are getting nowhere. How about we tell you what we know, and you can just fill in any gaps?”

“Is this the part of the interrogation where you regale me with my entire life story to get me to open up? As if I wasn’t there to live it myself?” You asked.

Strauss ignored you. “According to archived notes left by Jason Gideon, you were discovered as an infant during an FBI raid of an underground market in a remote town in Alaska, designed to sell children on the black market to the highest bidder. They estimated that you were born sometime in 1980. You would later be fostered by Anastazja and Roman Nowak—two self-proclaimed fortune tellers, part of a small nomadic carnival called _Le Carnaval Des Rois._ They took you in when you were eight and raised you on and off until you eventually aged out of the system. At the age of ten, while under their care, you were abducted and held hostage by a man named Carl Waters; a serial killer otherwise known as ‘The Rat-Catcher’. He was later revealed to be the man responsible for your original abduction as an infant. Waters held you captive for nearly twelve months alongside several other missing orphans from the market. It wasn’t until the BAU got involved that you were recovered and released from captivity.”

Hearing _his_ name made you cringe, but she was right on the money so far. It was Gideon and Rossi that returned you to the arms of your foster parents. You were a changed person after that, a broken child full of anger and fear, but you were alive. Others weren’t so lucky. You chewed at the inside of your bottom lip, nervous about just how much more personal information there was left in that file.

You joked nervously, “I have quite the origin story, don’t I?”

“A little over ten years ago, when you were seventeen,” Hotchner continued, “you were arrested on charges of obstruction of justice for interfering in a murder case being investigated by the local police in Tampa during your travels with the Nowaks. You crossed the police tape, claiming to be, in your words, a young ‘ _seer_ ’ who could identify the killer through the ‘whispers of spirits’. Apparently, your time with the Nowaks was not wasted. They taught you the tools of the trade: unique observation skills and the ability to read others. But it was that very mentalism that got you into trouble. Your information on the murder was so precise that you became a person of interest. When it was discovered that your claims were true, a killer was taken off the streets and the charges against you were dropped. You continued your ruse in nearly every city the carnival visited, eventually catching the eye of the FBI. To be exact: you caught the eye of Senior BAU Agent Jason Gideon, a man who years prior was part of the team that saved you and the children from Carl Waters.”

Hotchner surprised you with a smile. 

“You were considered quite a prodigy.”

“‘Prodigy’? No, not really. I was just following in the family’s footsteps! Tricking local law enforcement into believing I was a talented young clairvoyant was just a way to pass the time.” You jeered. “Besides, you know how we orphans can get. We tend to act out for attention.”

Well, you got it!” Strauss exclaimed, crossing her arms. It was hard to miss the way the motion caused her to teeter. “Gideon sought you out for recruitment personally, even though you weren’t legally an adult. He saw a rare potential in you. Or, maybe it was pity—”

“Erin.” Rossi stopped her.

You were taken aback by her words.

“What’s with the third degree? Tell me, did I hurt you in a past life?” You asked. 

“Bah! _Psychics_ .” She scoffed. “Your kind have made a mockery of government agencies for far too long. You appear out of nowhere, manipulating the desperate hopes of the victim’s poor, grieving loved ones to line your pockets. All the while making good, brave officers of the law look like a group of buffoons… But you’re all frauds. Those cases you _‘helped’_ solve resulted from nothing but dumb luck.”

You nodded along in response. “Hm, that’s true. Everyone claiming to be a psychic or psychic adjacent is a liar. And I never asked for money, by the way, but they usually insisted on it. That, along with the thrill of it all, made the game one I couldn’t stop playing. But the closure I brought to those families? That much was real, at the very least. You are wrong about one thing, however.”

“And what’s that?”

“Those cops _were_ buffoons.” You taunted, wagging a finger at her.

Strauss laughed and shook her head in disbelief. Your blatant disrespect and toothy grin offended everything she stood for and was taking your jabs way too seriously.

“Unbelievable. So, the ends justify the means, is that it? That the con was mutually beneficial? Honestly, girl, I don’t know how you sleep at night.”

“Oh, I don’t.”

Your quick reply caused a silence to fall in the room. They were expecting you to retort, but instead you only affirmed your guilt.

You let out a sigh. “Look, I know what I was, okay? But I was also young, dumb, and damaged. Still am, funny enough! That was the only life I knew at that point. I can’t take back the way I deceived those people, but if it’s any consolation, I’ve paid for it since.”

Strauss sized up your grubby attire. “Yes… You have fallen on hard times, indeed.”

“See?” You raised your arms to display yourself in all your dog-eared glory. “As you can tell, karma does wonders for the skin!”

“So, wait—” Rossi interjected. “—I’m confused. If you felt guilty about your scam, why turn down Gideon’s offer to enroll in the academy? Why not use your talents for something real?”

You clenched your jaw. 

“Because you weren’t given an option, were you?” Aaron leaned on the table. “Right after your eighteenth birthday, you were reported as missing by your foster family and never heard from again until today. Gideon was never able to make the offer because someone else got to you first.”

“...Truthfully? This was the first time I’m hearing about this alleged offer.” You grew somber. “I wish he had.”

“Then it’s true. The CIA had other plans for you.”

You shot reluctant looks at Rossi and Hotchner (not bothering to acknowledge Strauss) and acquiesced with nothing but a single nod.

Rossi read from the file. “Well, joining the CIA definitely explains where you learned the karate moves we saw in the bus’ security footage.”

“Wing Chun,” you corrected quietly. “Mixed with Krav Maga.”

Rossi grinned. “Oh, is that all?”

“I would have taken up Karate, but the class was full.”

He huffed. 

“We’re getting off-track.” Strauss finally chimed in, “Tell us, why did the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States of America offer you, a troubled teen, a potential career with their establishment?”

She puzzled you. “Does your magic folder not reveal that secret? I thought you had already read through it?”

“Humor us.” Hotchner insisted.

You hesitated, but there was no point in holding back now. “I… might have hustled a senator or two. Unearthed some nasty secrets, caused some drama. Got myself caught in the process.” 

“You tried to con a senator?” Rossi froze.

“Nuh-uh—not con! It was a ruse. I was trying to solve a double homicide, for crying out loud!”

“And this ‘drama’ you caused?”

“Two maids found out that the senators were having an illicit affair, so the senators conspired to silence them to keep their secret from their wives and the public. I knew I could get them to turn on each other to save their own skins,” you crossed your arms and shrugged, “but how was I supposed to know that they would start a shoot-out!?”

Rossi recalled a memory. “Wait, are you talking about the deaths of Peter Carter and John Howards? I remember that!” He exclaimed. “I had just retired when it happened. It was on every headline for weeks. But the news said it was a car accident!”

“Yeah… Not quite. Turns out having two corrupt elected officials die in a lover’s quarrel over murders and laundered drug money doesn’t reflect well on the government.”

“Wh—They were laundering drug money!?”

You thought back. “Oh, did I forget to mention that part?”

“That still doesn’t explain why you were head-hunted by the CIA,” Hotchner said.

“‘Head-hunted’ makes it sound like they picked me out of a lineup for American Idol. My involvement with the CIA wasn’t as much a career opportunity as it was a lesser of two evil alternatives.”

“Meaning?” Strauss said, very annoyed.

“ _Meaning_ the CIA found out I transferred the dirty money from the senators’ off-shore accounts to the victims’ families—money that could be traced back to major bad guys and other corrupt government lackeys. They wanted to know how I got access to them.”

“Wait, don’t tell me—” Strauss said. “—Let me guess: you told them that the spirits showed you visions of their passwords in a dream?”

“Don’t be absurd.” You scoffed. “I just asked for them.”

“You… You _‘asked’_ them!? And they gave them to you? Just like that!?” 

“A little ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ can go a long way. Is that so hard to believe?”

“YES!” she yelled.

Your headache grew worse. “You have my damn file, see for yourself!”

“Unfortunately, it just says that they hired you, not anything that took place before.” Hotchner told you. “As you can imagine, the CIA prefers to keep the files on their agents as vague as possible with key pieces conveniently left out.”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it, then. Look, it’s simple, they gave me two choices: be charged with obstruction, fraud, and two counts of felony murder sprinkled on top for good measure, or work for them. It wasn’t a hard choice.”

“But why abandon your life? Why make us believe you had disappeared?” Rossi asked.

“I didn’t want to, Rossi. I was just doing as I was told. What the CIA had in store for me was too important to risk exposure.”

“And what would that be, exactly?”

Hotchner and Strauss exchanged looks. They seemed to have finally pieced things together. Hotchner then took the obsidian file from in front of Rossi, turned it, and slid it closer to you. He flipped it open, presenting you with the first page.

“ _Project Third Eye_.” He stated.

You didn’t want to look, but you couldn’t resist. Before you, printed on the finest high-quality paper the US government could afford, was your entire history with the CIA. It read like a timeline, incrementing every significant advancement, mission, success, and failure you had ever experienced. 

The first page was your profile. In the top left corner was a headshot of you from nearly four years ago, right before you left to return to civilian life. The date read “2004”. Around the photo were your personal details. Things like height, weight, age, eye and hair color, rank, and such. They had everything—everything except your name.

“ _‘Jane’_ ,” Strauss read from the file. “That was your codename, wasn’t it? That’s why you currently go by ‘Jayne’ now that you’re a civilian. You just couldn’t ditch the persona completely, huh?”

You pushed the folder away from you. You needn’t read more, there was nothing in it you didn’t already know. “I became comfortable with it, yes. Better to just throw a ‘Y’ in the middle and call it a day.”

Rossi gave in and began reading its contents. Your eyebrows knitted together as you observed him scan the pages.

“Says here you were in the National Clandestine Service, Special Activities Division,” He said. “This is some serious stuff.”

Strauss resumed her pacing. “You were part of an accelerated training program—Project Third Eye—that aimed to have you field-ready as soon as possible. Their goal was to have agents that could blend in with the younger crowds. The file details tell us you were an efficient spy, having completed your first mission when you were only twenty years old. Gathering intel, following targets, _killing_ …,” she lingered on her words, attempting to elicit a response from you. “All sorts of espionage. Nothing was out of reach for you. However, it seemed that your true calling was for undercover missions and interrogation. Using what you learned during your time with your fellow carnies, you excelled at getting to the truth without so much as lifting a finger. No threat of violence, no deals struck. Just good old-fashioned reading.”

All the exposition was making you sleepy. Clearly she was posturing, using details from your freshly unsealed personnel file as some sort of bragging tool. You didn’t care what they knew, you were done with that life. The only thing you couldn’t figure out was why they were telling you any of this at all? You weren’t in trouble; you committed no crime, so why were they here trying to make you sweat? Why dig into your life? Something told you that this was about more than just closing a missing persons case or your former bosses attempting to account for your whereabouts. This was personal; they wanted something from you.

Rossi’s eyes never left the pages, but you could see him sweating. There was no way he was ever going to look at you the same. The worst things you had ever done in your life were under the order of the American flag, so you couldn’t blame him if he did.

“Your mononym is legendary, according to Director Shaw.” Strauss continued. “But, after only six years with the agency, you made your leave following the tragic death of y—”

“ **ENOUGH.** ”

Strauss had successfully struck a nerve, but she didn’t find as much satisfaction in it as she thought she would as the volume at which you shouted shocked the room. It birthed a brief, uncomfortable silence that everyone was at the mercy of. As the dust settled, the tension began to dissipate.

You had no interest in discussing that particular detail of your past. The subject was off limits to everyone. How the CIA learned about it, you had no idea. It was a private matter that you had spent the last three years grieving over. They needn’t know more. 

You rested both palms flat against the table, outstretched before you to steady yourself before speaking. You were boiling over.

“That’s enough.” You spoke in a deliberately calm tone. “You’ve learned of my past, you know why I disappeared. All against my wishes. Now you can close the missing persons case and the CIA can rest easy knowing I am back on their radar. So, what’s the point of all this? What do you want?”

Strauss took a deep breath before responding. “We want to know what you’ve been up to since your departure in 2004.”

You shook your head and laughed. “No, that’s what the CIA wants to know. As far as I’m concerned, they can get stuffed! I’m asking about you; the _FBI_. What does the FBI want from me?”

Rossi closed the file and looked towards his friend. 

Hotchner didn’t blink.

“We’d like to offer you a job,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK if this was made clear or not, but the story takes place in 2007 (so, sometime in Season 3). Reader/Odessa is a year older than Reid. Here's what has been revealed so far: 
> 
> ~1980: Reader born, recovered by BAU  
> 1981: Reid born  
> 1990: Reader abducted by Carl Waters  
> 1991: Rescued (again)  
> 1997: Starts psychic scam, arrested, then recruited by CIA. Rossi retires.  
> 1998: Joins the CIA/Project Third Eye  
> 2000: First successful mission  
> 2004: Leaves CIA  
> 2005-2007 (present day): ???
> 
> (Icon made by [Nikita Golubev](https://www.flaticon.com/authors/nikita-golubev))


	5. Moth To The Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡ If you find the classic book formatting annoying to read, please click the "Hide Creator's Style" button at the top of the page to revert it back to the default AO3 style. ♡
> 
> [No TWs for this chapter.]
> 
> I made this one a bit longer to make up for the wait!

* * *

You broke out into a fit of laughter so ferocious that you could feel your belly start to ache. 

“AH—! That’s a good one!” You said, wiping a tear from your eye. “I didn’t know the BAU had jokes!”

Aaron Hotchner’s face grew stern. “This is a genuine proposition, Ms. Jayne.”

You finally caught your breath and grinned ear-to-ear. David Rossi seemed to be just as shocked as you were, but he didn’t find it funny.

“A job?” Rossi asked, looking to Strauss. “This is the first I’m hearing of this.”

Erin Strauss crossed her arms. “That’s because it was just approved by the Director of the FBI only moments before we entered the room.” She said.

Suddenly, none of this seemed funny anymore. You couldn't believe what you were hearing. You looked around the room, looking for signs that you were being Punk’d. Hidden cameras, a boom mic, anything. You scooched your chair back and leaned down to look under the table, but saw only legs.

“What are you doing?” Rossi asked.

“Looking for Ashton Kutcher.”

Rossi rolled his eyes.

You sat back up and pointed towards the window. “Is he back there?” You asked in a hushed tone.

“ _No_ ,” said Strauss.

“It’s okay if he is! I’ve always wanted to meet him.”

“Has she always been a clown?” She asked Rossi.

You pulled your chair in. “No, but sometimes my foster parents would let me dress up as one during performances. I was very cute!”

Hotchner reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper and placed it on the table.

“This is a rough draft of the contract we are offering to you.” He said. “We will have something more concise by morning.”

A quick glance of the so-called “contract” revealed all you needed to know. It was a working agreement for a position as a consultant. The specifics of the job had yet to be determined, but it confirmed that it was, indeed, sanctioned by the FBI director. No jokes, no hidden cameras, no Ashton Kutcher. They left you nearly speechless.

“Why?” You inquired. It was the only word you could muster.

Hotchner's fist grew tight as he averted eye contact. He was holding something in. Shame? A bruised ego? Rage?

“A little over a month ago, Carl Waters escaped from the Spring Creek Correctional Center—the maximum security prison where he was serving a life sentence.” 

The blood in your veins turned to ice. Your eyes fell on the table. Did you hear him correctly? Carl Waters _escaped?!_ How was that even possible?! Honestly, you thought he had died in prison. He deserved no less. The bastard must have been close to sixty-five by now, no way he could do it alone. He had to have had help.

All the color seemed to drain out of the room as your vision narrowed, turning into a boring greyscale. You could feel the walls beginning to melt as a tingling numbness then crawled over every inch of skin—no longer able to feel the pressure of the chair on your back as you leaned your body weight against it or the hard metal table you were resting your forearms upon. You could hear that Hotchner talking, but could not make out his words. All the noises in the room grew muffled, as if you were submerged underwater. As their voices faded deeper and deeper, a shrill, high-pitched ringing took their place. 

_Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiii_ —

The tinnitus grew louder and louder. Your eardrums pulsed and ached.

_—iiiiIIIIIIIIIIIIII—_

There was a pang in your chest as your heart pulsated. You grew hot, causing beads of sweat to drip down your neck and pool in the collar of your hoodie.

**_—IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII_ ** **—**

All your thoughts fixated on one thing.

_How could this have happened?! How could they let this happen?! Where did he go?! Who helped him?! Was he going to hurt other children?! What was his pla_ —

Someone shouted your real name, pulling your mind from the madness.

In an instant, as if someone had flicked a switch, pigment returned to the world around you and your eyes came into view, causing you to blink several times. The deafening frequency subsided, but still your head twinged with pain. You grew awkwardly aware of how silent the room had become.

You shook your head slightly, clearing your nerves once and for all, and looked up at Rossi. You recognized his voice as the one who called out to you.

“Are back with us?” He asked.

“... Y-yea.” You cleared your throat and wiped the sweat off your brow with your sleeve. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long time since…”

Your brain was in knots.

“I understand how upsetting this must be,” Hotchner said.

“That’s an understatement. How did he escape?”

He took a breath. “Not too long ago, Waters began a relationship with an older woman through a prison pen pal service. Waters was sick at the time, so the warden got soft and granted them a conjugal, assuming that he wouldn’t make it through the week. The poor woman had no idea that Waters planned on killing her and slipping out in her clothes with the help of a bribed guard.”

“... You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

“So, you’re telling me that a seventy-something year-old felon managed to break out of a maximum security prison on the frozen-fucking-coast of Alaska like some sort of evil Mrs. Doubtfire? Why now? Why wait sixteen years?”

“We were hoping you could answer those questions for us.”

“ _Me?_ ”

“We’ve exhausted our resources looking for Waters,” Rossi said. “He spent decades working for some of the most insidious, low-life black market organizations out there, making him a well-connected man. There’s no doubt that he used his skeevy friends to seek sanctuary.”

Strauss leaned against the table, using her arms as support. “You spent a year with the man,” she said sympathetically, “so you know firsthand what he’s capable of. We hope that your personal knowledge and observational skills will grant us new insight into his mind in order to apprehend him.”

“So why the job offer? Why not just interview me about what I remember and leave me the hell alone?” You were blunt.

“Believe me, I don’t like this either. But... the FBI director has ordered us to step back from the case temporarily.” She explained, pushing herself upright again. “The trail has gone cold and there are other immediate cases that require our full attention.”

Hotchner added, “Due to your status with the CIA being marked as covert, we have no public work history available to us that would qualify you to be a full-time member of the team. As a consultant, you wouldn’t have to operate under the same restrictions we do, allowing you to freely work the case as much as you’d like—”

“With supervision, of course!” Strauss wagged a finger at you.

“—However, in order to keep you listed as an active contractor, we will have to require your assistance on other cases from time to time.”

“You are our last hope, Ms. Jayne.” Strauss finally used your new name in a serious manner.

You sucked your teeth. “You do not understand what you’re asking of me,” you groaned.

“We understan—”

“No!” You exclaimed. “You really don’t!”

Metal legs scraped stridently against the floor as you shot to your feet, almost knocking over your chair in the process. Your hands found your hips as you paced back and forth anxiously. You spent the last year planning this night, and they sought to put an end to it with some wild pitch about a job that would only throw you back into the world that you had been running from all this time. They made their proposition sound like a no-brainer, as if the decision was a simple one. But you knew better.

Your lips trembled. “Carl Waters ripped me from my birth parent’s hands before I could even hold my head up on my own. I don’t even know if they’re still alive! Then, to add insult to injury, he resurfaces ten years later just to repeat the process. The things he put me through—the horrors I witnessed at his hands—haunt me to this very day. He robbed me of my youth and any chance I might have had to live a normal white-picket fence life. He _broke_ me. And, if it wasn’t for him, my Elizabeth might—” 

You swallowed your words and held back your tears. You didn’t want to talk about her. The three BAU members could only stare as you struggled to speak.

“... What you’re asking me to do,” you caught your breath and continued, “is to dedicate more of my life to that _monster_ . He is a man of great patience, so finding him could take years. _Years!_ He spent a decade killing in the shadows before resurfacing to kidnap me and the others, and that was when he was at his prime. Now that he is older, who knows how long he will lie torpid? How much more will I allow him to take from me?!”

Hotchner and Rossi seemed to bury their heads. They hadn’t considered what it really meant for you to give more of your time to Carl Waters. It was assumed that you would jump at the chance to track him down—if not for justice, then for revenge. Strauss, on the other hand, crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently.

“Yes, it _might_ ,” She said. “But think about all the others he will hurt in the meantime. How many more innocent lives will be snuffed out because of your selfishness?”

“Erin.” Hotchner tried to stop her.

The muscles in your face relaxed as you cleared your expression. You stepped closer to Strauss, allowing her to see the emptiness in your graze. It was a habit you developed while in the field: sometimes the hidden emotions are more feared than the ones we show on the surface. 

It was that close proximity that allowed you to confirm your suspicions about the residing Section Chief. The emotional fits you could ignore, but the teetering as she stood in place made you leery. It wasn’t until you were standing directly in front of her that you could smell the familiar, dense smog of alcohol that wafted from her breath. 

“That is unfair, and you know it.”

“Okay,” Rossi stood, placing himself between the two of you. “That’s enough.”

Strauss rolled her eyes and turned to walk towards the door. “I’ve heard just about all I handle for the night.”

“Your failure to do the job that you are _paid_ to do does not automatically shift the blame to me.” You said. “I am not here to clean up your mess, nor will I be your scapegoat.”

Strauss’ hand rested on the long, metal handle of the door. “You have forty-eight hours to make up your mind,” she said after turning to face you. “You are free to return to… _whatever_ it is you are doing these days, if you wish. But we are giving you a chance to make a difference—one that doesn’t require deception. If I were you, I would seriously consider it.”

And with that, she made her way out.

You ran your right hand along your mouth, ghosting the scar above your lip. It was an occasional nervous tic of yours. 

Rossi turned to face you. “Are you okay?”

“Where can I get my things?” You ignored the question.

Agent Hotchner stood, picked up the contract draft, and returned it to the inner lining of his coat before walking to the one-way window behind him. He pulled up the blinds and tapped against the glass gently with the knuckle of his index finger. The officer that stood guard in the room previously returned, this time holding a large plastic bin containing your personal effects. Hotchner thanked him as he placed it down on the table and left the room just as quickly as he had entered.

You didn’t have much with you when you arrived. The only thing that had any actual value to you was your duster. It was one of the first items you bought when you returned to civilian life, giving it a special place in your heart. You picked it up and searched its pockets for the rest of your belongings: a subway ticket, a pen, a few cough drop wrappers, a brand new pack of gum, and $18.56 in cash. Your whiskey, however, was long gone.

“If you’re looking for a man by the name of _Jack Daniel’s_ , I’m sorry to tell you he was confiscated by the local PD when they picked you up,” Rossi patted your back. “You didn’t need him, anyway.”

“Speak for yourself.” You said, opting to carry your coat with your forearm instead of slipping it on. “Are we done? I have somewhere to be.”

“Are you really not going to consider it, then?”

“Agent Rossi, I’m exhausted. I do not have the brainpower required to make a decision like that tonight. I want Carl Waters to rot more than anyone else on this godforsaken planet, but I meant what I said. He has taken so much from me… And I’m not entirely sure that I have anything left in me to give.”

Hotchner picked up your CIA file. You hated that damn thing. It made you wonder if the sins it contained could set this place ablaze if they held a cross against it. 

“Sleep on it,” He said. It sounded more like a command than a suggestion. “If you still feel the same way in the morning, then you never have to speak with us again. However, should you reconsider—”

He handed you a business card.

“—you know how to reach us.”

You nodded, giving him a silent “thank you” and placing the card in one of your pockets.

“I’ll leave the two of you be. David, please come see me in my office before you leave.”

“I’m right behind you,” Rossi replied.

“It was nice to meet you finally, Ms. Jayne.”

You shook the hand he offered you. His grip was good and firm, just as you suspected. The thought of stealing the watch from his wrist intruded your thoughts.

“Likewise, Agent Hotchner.” You offered him a smile.

Hotchner let the door close naturally behind him.

“Hey—” Rossi called you by your real name.

“Odessa.” You corrected him.

“... _Odessa_. I’m sorry. It’s probably going to take me some time to get used to that.” Rossi grabbed your left hand and cradled it with both of his own. “Which I am willing to do… If you’ll let me.” The tenderness in his eyes were sincere. They were pleading to you; begging for you not to run off again. 

You laid your free hand on top of his.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You lied.

* * *

The two of you talked briefly before saying your goodbyes. There was a lot to catch up on, but very little time to do so. Rossi wrote his number down on Hotchner’s card, expecting you to schedule a lunch with him sometime soon, then offered to walk you to the elevator. You thanked him and refused. You needed to think and couldn’t mentally handle any more questions for the night, which he would undoubtedly have if he walked with you. Besides, you didn’t need an escort. While it had been a long-ass time since you were last here, you still remembered the layout of the floor. The day the BAU rescued you and Liz from Carl Waters was one you’d never forget; you could recall every second with perfect clarity. It was one of the best days of your life, and you didn’t have many of those.

The senior agent held the door open for you as you were finally able to leave. He pulled you into a quick hug, then kissed the top of your forehead. The affection made you squirm.

“Just… Promise me you’ll think about it?” He asked. 

“I will do anything you ask, as long as you never do that again!” 

“Hah! No promises!” He laughed and wagged a finger at you. “Call me if you need anything at all. Really, I mean it.”

You rolled your eyes. As you turned to leave, a thought occurred to you that stopped you in your tracks. “Well, there is one thing you can do for me.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t notify the Nowaks know about me, okay?”

You left Rossi slightly perplexed. “Why wouldn’t you want them to know you’re alive? They were the closest thing to parents that you ever had.”

“They spent years grieving over me.” You clenched your teeth. “It was only in the last two that they finally opened up their lives to foster children once again. If I were to just show up, back from the dead, out of the blue… I just can’t risk that they will drop everything and shut down again. In all those years they spent weeping, orphans were deprived of a safe place where they could breathe freely, far away from any shelter. I don’t want to be the cause of that, not again.”

Rossi paused. “Alright,” he said after a moment. “I won’t say anything to them. But, for the record, I think this is a bad idea.”

You snickered to yourself while walking away. “It won’t be the first bad idea I’ve had tonight!”

The two of you waved goodbye to one another.

Your body lumbered as you made your way down the hall. The night seemed as if it would never end. It was bad enough that the physical altercation left your body feeling like you had been pushed out of a moving car, so you really could’ve gone without being forced to sit and listen as strangers unearthed shit that you had been legally obligated to keep a secret for the last ten-fucking-years.

Exhaustion forced your brain to go into emergency auto-pilot, allowing itself to guide you to where you needed to go with little thought—which you desperately needed. Every cell in your body was collapsing at once. 

Rossi had asked you to “think about” the job, but you didn’t need to because there was nothing to think about. It was an insane offer. They slap cuffs on you, potentially break a dozen-or-so laws to access confidential information, interrogate and insult you like a criminal, and then have the nerve to ask you to come work for them?! No, no way. You weren’t looking for employment, anyway, and the BAU surely didn’t need a consultant. They were only pushing you so you would throw yourselves to their feet for a chance to hunt Carl Waters down like a bloodhound.

Besides, there was also no way in hell you would ever work with Strauss. That woman was _not_ a fan of yours.

It was after work hours, so the lights throughout the floor were dim and only a handful of people remained. The emptiness gave you that eerie feeling, the same one you got when you felt too exposed—too vulnerable. Your gut tried to warn you that something lurked in every shadow, but the truth was that you had been running from the real world for so long, you did not know how to act when you were suddenly confronted by it. You knew that the need to run didn’t come from any real danger, but from cowardice. And that annoyed the fuck out of you. 

You arrived at the elevator and began your assault on the “down” button, pressing it repeatedly and refusing to stop until it arrived. Your mood was rotten. All you wanted to do was sprout wings and fly out the window.

“You know,” a voice said from behind you, “I don’t think that will make it go any faster.”

You jumped and spun around, but you already knew who it was. _Dr._ Spencer Reid looked pretty pleased with himself. You should have been put off by the level of sass he was giving you, but you were too tired to care. Honestly, he was probably the only person you were okay with being around at the moment. 

Both hands clutched nervously at the strap of his archaic messenger bag that draped across his chest on top of his thick, tweed overcoat. His eyes were sullen and bloodshot to hell, yet so kind. You couldn’t help but feel a smidgen of guilt as you realized the deep purple bags under them resulted from this eventful night. If you were anyone else, he would have been home right now, recuperating. Instead, your existence dragged him all the way back to work, further depriving him of the rest he needed and earned.

“No, but it sure makes me feel better,” you replied.

You turned your attention back to the button. Reid pondered for a moment, debating something with himself, then moved to stand beside you on your right. You could see out of your peripherals that he was staring at your hand.

“You’re a trekkie?” He asked. “That’s awesome! Me too!”

You stopped, realizing he had seen your wrist tattoo. It was a simple, minimalist design of the Starfleet insignia. No colors, no shading. Just thin black lines under your palm.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” You pulled your hoodie sleeve down, suddenly feeling put on the spot. You hated that term, _“trekkie”._

“Well, it must mean a great deal to you, regardless. Otherwise you wouldn’t have had it permanently etched into your skin.”

“I dunno, I’ve seen some pretty meaningless tattoos in my life. Have a few of ‘em myself.”

“Is that one of them, then?”

_DING!_

You and Reid stepped into the elevator. You leaned across him to press the ground floor button before he had the chance, even though he was closer to the panel. The doors closed and there was a brief period of silence, but you didn’t want to just let his question go unanswered. Reid had been the only person to treat you like you weren’t a threat to national security all night, so the least you could do was entertain his attempt at small talk. 

Your hands hid in the front pocket of your hoodie as you watched the numbers above the elevator light up slowly, then dim in succession as the cart lowered.

“Growing up,” you said, “there was a year where Star Trek was the only thing we could really get on the TV. The TNG crew practically became part of the family… Sometimes, it was hard to fall asleep without hearing their voices. I guess at some point the show had become more important to me than I realized. Been a fan ever since.”

Reid beamed at you with his big, stupid doe-eyes that disarmed you. You felt your cheeks become flushed from the sudden vulnerability he had coaxed you into. 

You continued, “I know that must seem odd.”

“Not at all!” Reid jumped in, nodding along. “That’s actually very sweet.”

You tried to hide your look of gaiety by throwing your hood up and staring at the floor. You bit your bottom lip and forced yourself to shake free of whatever was making you feel so shy and childlike. You liked the Doctor, but you knew it was risky for you to be around him, especially right now. He had this comforting feeling about him that threatened to lower your guard, as if you could tell him anything and everything.

The Doctor fidgeted with his bag. “There’s, uh—You know, there have been a multitude of studies that show there are plenty of psychological benefits to watching nostalgic television as a form of healthy regression. It helps us calm down when we are anxious, stressed, or just feeling out of control in general. That’s why we’re so inclined to binge watch certain shows. Some even say that it’s analogous to a comforting hug from a parent. Star Trek has a similar effect on me, as well, but I think I am more drawn to Doctor Who… And The X-files.”

“Well, I grew up an orphan. So I can’t exactly say that’s true in my case, but I guess I do feel a sense of serenity the moment the TNG theme song plays! I think I could listen to Patrick Stewart read the phonebook all day for the rest of my life and never get sick of it.”

Reid gulped. “Oh, I’m sorry… I had no idea.”

There was an awkwardness in his voice. The mention of your lack of parentage usually brought about the same reaction from everyone, so you weren’t surprised.

“Relax, Doctor.” You tried to reassure him. “I had two very wonderful foster parents who were more than enough for me during the periods I was in their care, so it’s not as if I missed out entirely.”

“Good. That’s, uh… that’s a relief.”

The doctor offered you a sympathetic expression. He meant what he said; he _was_ relieved. Reid had grown up without a father himself, but he couldn’t imagine a life devoid of his mother as well. He believed you deserved better.

“Your comment about my association to a Shetland sheepdog,” Reid said, changing the subject by recalling your conversation from earlier, “I did some light reading on the species, but I think I’m failing to understand what you see.”

“Why’s that?” You had nearly forgotten about that conversation.

“They share a lot with the poodle, if I’m being honest. They’re incredibly intelligent and easy to train due to their willingness to please—energetic, fun-loving, and considered wonderful family dogs. Really, the only significant difference that stands out to me is that the Shetland is a herding dog, whereas the poodle was originally a hunting and is now bred as a show dog. But their breeding purpose has nothing to do with my association with them.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

_DING!_

The elevator came to a stop. The gears to the mechanical doors whirred slowly as they opened to the dimly lit lobby. The entire hall was empty, with the exception of a single janitor and a few security guards. You didn’t wait for Reid to give you the ol’ “Ladies First” signal before marching out of the car. Reid followed in tow, quickening his steps to a brisk walk to keep up with you. The sounds of your combined footsteps on cold tile echoed against the tall ceilings.

You continued, “For the poodle to be an expert hunter, they need to have the mindset of a predator that’s solely driven by the need to search and kill. It’s that mindset—that insatiable precondition of their existence—that also allows them to be champion show dogs. I’m sure a fair share of the unsubs you’ve apprehended behave much in the same way. Herders like the Shetland, on the other hand? They’re protectors; hardwired to redirect livestock to the right path in order to keep them safe. It is their duty. They don’t know any other way to live.” 

You stopped walking; you needed to say this to his face.

“What you did tonight—putting yourself in harm's way to protect me—was not the act of a predator. While I do not doubt that you have the ability to be tenacious like one, it’s your drive—that hardwired behavior that compels you to protect those in need—that separates you from them, the same way that it separates poodles and sheepdogs.”

It wasn’t often that Special Agent Reid found himself speechless, but this was one of those rare times. His tongue peeked out briefly as he subtly licked between his thin lips (a tic of his) and just stared at you, mouth slightly agape as if trying to find the words to say. He took the loose tendrils of hair that covered his face and curled them behind his ears.

“That’s, um, very kind of you to say,” he stammered. “But you’ve only known me for a few hours… How could you have come to that conclusion in such a short time?”

You shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

“Yeah. You know, intuition and all that?”

“Oh? That’s all?” He laughed. “Your intuition is very generous.”

“Not really,” you glanced at the doors leading out of the building, then back to Reid. “But it’s rarely wrong.”

“We’ll see. You’ve set the bar pretty high for me! I hope I can live up to it.”

You grinned. “You already do.” 

You looked back towards the front. Condensation rolled down the glass windows, telling you it was going to be cold out there. You threw your duster around your shoulders on top of your hoodie and put your arms through the sleeves. There was an awkward feeling on your arms as the fabric of your grey sweater had ridden up. It begged you to adjust them. You reached through the arms and pulled on the hoodie’s bunched-up sleeves, bringing the cuffs forward and past the length of the duster’s.

“I need to thank you, by the way.” he said, mirroring you. He buttoned up his overcoat and popped the collar up to shield his neck from the anticipated algidity.

“For what? Comparing you to a dog?”

“For defending my life,” his expression grew serious. “I didn’t have the chance before now. To be honest, I feel a bit embarrassed about the whole thing. I was supposed to be the one saving you, but instead, you ended up having to save me. So thank you. I mean it.”

“You have nothing to thank me for. I, uh… I should be the one thanking you, actually.”

He cocked his head to the side in confusion.

“I don’t know if you’ve caught on yet, but I’m a bit of a mess.” You let out a huff and felt your scar. “Tonight wasn’t the first time I’ve found myself in that situation, and it probably won't be my last. But… You are the first person ever to attempt to intervene. And, while _I_ know I am capable of handling myself, _you_ had no knowledge of that. All you knew was that someone was in trouble, and that alone was reason enough for you to risk your safety, and possibly your life.”

A foreign emotion sat in your chest. You felt heavy, as if you might sink into the earth.

You continued. “You have shown me a kindness tonight that I have not seen in a long time. It humbles me. And, regardless of how things went down, I am... grateful.”

Whatever the Doctor was feeling was replaced with a toothy grin. He bowed his head slightly to stare at his shoes. 

“You probably would be more grateful if I had brought my gun, huh?” He joked.

“And deprive me of the chance to whoop some punks’ asses?! HA! No thank you! That was the highlight of my week!”

Both of you exchanged an honest laugh as you attempted to make light of the situation. After a moment, he lifted his head again. Your vision was iffy and definitely untrustworthy thanks to sleep deprivation, but you could have sworn you were looking at an angel. The man was practically glowing. If you threw in a halo and a pair of wings, you would have definitely thought you had died right then and there. Only, if you had, it sure as shit wouldn’t be a holy creature that welcomed you to the other side.

While you desperately needed to head home, you still savored the moment. It was calm here—pure—but the conversation had come to a natural lull and soon it would be over. A small sadness sat in the air between the two of you as you both wished that there was more time.

“Ms. Jayne?” An unknown voice said behind you. It belonged to a uniformed officer. “Agent Rossi asked me to take you home.”

“I don’t need an escort, really. I am perfectly capable of finding my way home,” you said, growing very annoyed with Rossi.

“I’m just following orders, ma’am.”

“Ugh, fine.” You abdicated, realizing you didn’t want to have to ride the subway or the bus again tonight. “But I am going to play with the sirens the entire way there.”

The officer looked at Reid, giving him a face that dared to ask, _“Is this bitch forreal?”_ Reid just shrugged his shoulders.

“I can’t let you do that,” replied the officer.

“Then I get control over the radio.”

“I can’t let you do that, either.”

“You are making these negotiations very difficult, sir.”

“So… Should I pull the car around, or—?”

“Of course, officer.” You gave his shoulder a good-natured tap with your palm. “I tease. Thanks for the lift. I’ll meet you outside.”

He rolled his eyes and walked out the exit.

Once the doors closed completely and he knew the both of you were alone, Reid asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

The Doctor had caught you off-guard, causing your brain to fumble and trip on your thoughts. “Why, uh—why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a long, rough night and I guess… it’s a feeling. ‘You know, intuition and all that’?” He said, coyly repeating your words from earlier.

“Yea,” you said, giving him a look of approval. “I do know.”

As the headlights of the officer’s car came around the bend, you knew the moment had ended. Soon, you would return to your motel room to follow through with your plans. You were scheduled to meet up with a dear friend, and you had kept them waiting long enough.

Something compelled you to wrap special agent Reid in a firm hug. Maybe it was your heightened emotions, or perhaps the delirium, but there was no fighting it. Besides, life is short, and you have always clung to the belief that you should hold and cherish those you care about while you are still able—leave no opportunity for regret. The Doctor might have been a stranger, but he still secured a small little corner of your heart.

It was an awkward hug, to say the least. Reid—a man with a closeted hypersensitivity to touch—had not expected it and therefore did not know how to react properly when you closed the distance between the two of you with outstretched arms. A heat boiled in Reid’s torso and his cheeks turned pink as a silent panic set in; he was entirely flustered and unsure what to do with himself. He kept his arms glued flat against his sides, leaving you with no other choice but to trap them both inside your vise grip. 

Despite being considered ‘tall’ for your gender, your chin was still two centimeters below his shoulder, making it so you could not place your head next to his. You settled for laying it flat against his clavicle. Loose strands of hair ticked his nose and the whiff of your coconut shampoo hit Reid’s nose and caused his head to spin. He wondered how it was that you still managed to smell so delightfully sweet, even after a so-called bender. He felt your hands move from the center of his back to his shoulder blades as you sank deeper and deeper into the embrace.

It only lasted a few seconds, but to the Doctor, it seemed to go on forever. Not that he hated it, he just didn’t know what to make of it. The initial shock took forever to subside, but he had to admit that he missed the physical contact the instant you released him. Your fingers brushed softly against his coat as you took a few paces backward until he was out of your reach. Reid noticed something odd: the enduring light in your eyes—one that flickered and bent assiduously with your every move—seemed to dim. He watched helplessly as your muscles caved and your entire body slouched towards the earth, too broken-down to hold you up any longer. A certain type of sadness hid behind the mask you had worn for so long. He feared the worst: you were vanishing, and his heart was breaking.

“I am going to be fine,” you said earnestly.

You were so sure of yourself, but he didn’t share that confidence. A fleeting, invisible pain shot through the agent’s gut. Something felt off. There was a sense of danger in the air and his instinct was to never let you leave, but there was no evidence of any impending doom rolling in the horizon. He knew he would have to let you go. Perhaps his intuition wasn’t as perceptive as yours.

“How do you know?” He asked.

“Because I met you.” You straightened your coat. “That’s why I’m okay.”

Reid didn’t know how to reply.

Tonight, a small piece of you, one that was previously thought to be misplaced forever, was restored. You had seen the worst that humanity had to offer this desolate, ignoble world and considered yourself to be an expert in all things evil, which is what made you all the more qualified to know what evil was not. While you had not worked in the field for quite some time, it didn’t take an FBI profiler to know that he was one of the good ones; a rare, genuine, self-effacing, lionhearted man. It gave you faith.

“My carriage awaits!” You said. “I gotta go before it turns back into a gourd.”

Reid laughed. “It might be too late for that, I’m afraid. It’s long past midnight.”

“Well, then I guess I better start walkin’!” You turned to leave.

“Odessa?”

“Hm?” You stopped.

“I’m really glad we met.”

Your chest grew tight. 

“Yea… I am, too.”

And with that, you sprinted through the doors, leaving the Doctor to his thoughts.

* * *

Your footsteps scrambled against the concrete as you jogged through the automatic sliding glass doors of the FBI headquarters and made your way outside. A small gust of crisp, cold air bit at your nose and robbed you of your focus. 

It was the middle of fall here in Virginia and you loved every second. Even if the temperature drop sought to turn you into a glorified popsicle, it couldn’t kill the way you felt when you watched the leaves change. As the weeks passed, you bore witness as trees of deep greens faded to new glories; they surrendered to mother nature’s might, who transformed them into a spectrum of dingy browns to vibrant hues of oranges and yellows.

Most nights, you would force yourself to sleep in gleeful anticipation of the gift that daybreak would bring: being awakened by warm, blinding sunbeams that bled through the cheap curtains of your motel room, as if your skin was being caressed by a merciful god. Like a moth to a flame, it was just too damn easy to lose an hour or more of your day once your sights became transfixed on the tree line outside your window. Rays of sun reflected off the morning dew that rested on aging foliage, caused a glittering golden halo that lavished the sky. It was possibly the closest you would ever get to having a religious experience.

You scanned the trees outside the louring stone prison where you had been confined for the last few hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of that divine light one last time. To your dismay, the sun had set long ago, and the only source of light as far as you could tell were the tall street lamps that illuminated the pavement before you. It was a disheartening sight, but that was to be expected. You looked up to the sky with the hopes that a few stars would lift your spirits, but they were gone too.

The officer sat in his parked car by the curb. He rolled down his window and shouted, “Hey! Are you ready to go?”

Your soul returned to the earth.

“Yes,” you wallowed. “I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Icon made by [Freepik](https://www.flaticon.com/authors/freepik))


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